


Beyond These Great Injustices

by ghostnebula (gghostnebula)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Blood, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Whump, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, I mean they're 13 so like, Internalized Homophobia, It Chapter 1, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mostly platonic tbh, Richie's fear is losing Eddie, Summer of 1989
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 01:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21329638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: What if... some of the events of Chapter 2... took place in 1989..."And then there’s blood on his face and Bev isscreaming,and he realizes the clown isreallyfucking with him, making him hallucinate fucked-up things likethis.Like Eddie’s face pale and unblinking above him, mouth working around a breath he can’t quite suck in because there’s some kind ofclawrun straight through his chest."In other words, a fic in which 13-year-old Eddie Kaspbrak gets stabbed by a sewer clown and 13-year-old Richie Tozier isNot Here For That Shit, Thanks.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 17
Kudos: 314





	Beyond These Great Injustices

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so they don't technically get together in this fic because they're uhhhh 13 years old??? Lmao. But do they love each other anyway? Yes. Will they date in the future? Absolutely.
> 
> Enjoy your angst.
> 
> (Not proofread, we die like men).
> 
> EDIT: You're not gonna believe this but [cottoncandyofterror](https://cottoncandyofterror.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr has the exact same brain as me because she made [this incredible (heartbreaking) comic](https://cottoncandyofterror.tumblr.com/post/188469735640/so-here-is-an-au-in-which-the-losers-club-defeat) in her fricking amazing style and now we are laughing about the single brain cell we apparently share. It really just boils down to "what if Eddie got hurt but when him liddol" so like.... we vibin'. I love this so much. Please check it out.

* * *

_ It knows what you’re afraid of. _

Richie doesn’t have to wonder about where the evil fucking sewer clown gets Its ideas from. It’s in his head.

It’s in all their heads.

It knows that Eddie is afraid of disease and Stan is afraid of isolation (and that creepy fucking painting from his dad’s office). It knows these things because It’s able to reach into their brains, somehow, and pick out all the dark parts.

Like werewolves. Or being forgotten.

Or the way he’s too ashamed to admit how warm it makes him feel when Eddie Kaspbrak rests his head in his lap. Shares his ice cream with him. Rides on the back of his bike.

The way he feels that cold prickle of uncertainty up his spine when he thinks what might happen if Eddie _ knew. _ If he would hate him. If he would be disgusted.

If he would leave him -- and that’s the worst part. Losing Eddie. That’s the absolute _ darkest _ part, the part he can’t focus on too long without it _ hurting, _ deeper than any hurt he’s ever felt before. 

That’s what the clown uses to scare him, he’s realized, after spending a good chunk of his summer trying not to get captured and eaten by it. Eddie disappearing in the Well House. Eddie luring him into rooms.

Making him think Eddie’s dead, or hurt; black sludge spilling from his lips as he laughs maniacally and Richie understands, in that moment, what’s happening.

It feeds off of their fear. It knows what they’re afraid of, and It takes those fears and turns them into some kind of energy source, twisting it all around until Richie is having nightmares for weeks about being attacked by werewolves, being _ turned into _ a werewolf, seeing Eddie get hurt -- being too late to stop the clown from killing him in the house on Neibolt.

He has one or two where _ he’s _ the one who hurts Eddie, or hurts any of his friends, and he doesn’t know if it’s the influence of the clown or his own imagination running away from him but he does know that he cries after those ones. 

Richie only half-understands what he’s most afraid of -- or maybe isn’t ready to admit that he does understand. It takes a split second of violence to make it all fall into place, and then he’s reeling because it _ can’t be real, can’t be right-- _

When the clown rounds on him, he sees Its face start morphing into Eddie’s likeness, an ugly sneer contorting his features. Judgment. Disgust. Sees the way his mouth opens around words he doesn’t ever want to hear and the fear explodes out of his chest before the mockery of his friend is fully realized. 

It _ knows _ and It’s going to show all the rest of them, too. 

And then It swells up under the force of his terror and grins with a thousand teeth, Eddie’s face splitting open with a shower of blood and Eddie -- the _ real _ Eddie, who’s picked up a pipe or something and is bearing down on It from behind, hasn’t quite noticed yet. Richie can’t stand to let him see.

He darts around the clown, baseball bat forgotten on the ground (he can’t bring himself to hit It anyway, not when it’s trying so hard to look like Eddie), and shoves him back before he can get a good enough look at It. They topple onto the damp cement, Richie’s hands sliding through the sticky slime all over his shirt while Eddie writhes and growls and insists he’s going to kill the motherfucker. 

_ No, no, _ Richie’s accidentally making It more powerful and Eddie shouldn’t go near It. _ None _ of them should. They should cut their losses and run _ now _ because how can they win? How can they win against something that seems to understand them better than they understand themselves?

It’s in his head and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get It _ out. _

Eddie shoves him off and tries to scramble to his feet but Richie grabs him and holds fast, dragging Eddie back down on top of him, chest heaving. “No--” he tries to say, but it comes out more like a wheeze. “Don’t look.”

And then there’s blood on his face and Bev is _ screaming, _ and he realizes the clown is _ really _ fucking with him, making him hallucinate fucked-up things like _ this. _ Like Eddie’s face pale and unblinking above him, mouth working around a breath he can’t quite suck in because there’s some kind of _ claw _ run straight through his chest. It dips down accusingly towards Richie and he thinks, _ oh, this isn’t real, _ as rivulets of blood, hot like lava, drip off the end and onto his clothes.

“Richie?” Eddie says, weak, the kind of voice he uses when he’s recovering from an asthma attack, or after Bowers spends hours chasing them around town, brandishing that stupid fucking knife.

_ It’s not real. _ The pitiful little breathless whimper of his name, or the dark, dark blood that bubbles up (like black sludge) out of his mouth or-- Eddie’s gone just as Richie’s hands close over the space he was occupying, trying to reassure himself that it’s not real. But Bev is still screaming and he hastily wipes the blood off his glasses just in time to see Eddie’s body hit the wall with a _ thud. _ He crumples to the ground below and Richie is suddenly a million times more afraid.

_ It’s not real. _

He’s on Eddie before he’s even aware that he’s moved at all, rolling him onto his back while Eddie twitches and jerks and tries to_ breathe. _ His good hand tries to grasp at the hole in his chest and Richie thinks for a second he might vomit but _ now is not the time. _

“Fuck, fuck, _ fuck, Eddie, no,” _ he gasps, covering the wound with his own hands as if it’s _ at all possible _ to stem the flow of blood. He’s still not entirely convinced this is _ real, _ even though Eddie is as real as ever under his touch and his ribs are jumping so frantically with every trembling attempt at a breath that there’s no _ way _ this could be fake. Not with Pennywise still cackling along behind him somewhere, Eddie’s fingers clamping down over his wrists as he chokes out his name again. The cast scrapes roughly against his skin, and Eddie doesn’t let it impede him, still tries to hold on, gazes up at Richie with wide, pleading, _ frightened _ eyes.

_ Fuck. _

Tears gather on Eddie’s cheeks as he stares up at Richie like he’s in a trance. His grip on Richie’s arms tightens and loosens sporadically and Richie _ doesn’t know what to do, _ except hold pressure and _ pray. _ His own tears dribble off his face to mix with the blood welling up between his fingers and he’s sure Eddie would have something to say about his germs, in a different circumstance.

“R-_ Ri--” _

“I’m here.” Richie’s so afraid he’s frozen. “I’m here. You’re gonna be okay.”

Eddie shakes his head, more tears tracking through the gunk coating his face, and when he coughs a little spray of blood bursts from between his lips.

Cold settles into Richie’s bones like a premonition.

The clown hasn’t just turned all his worst fears against him. It’s making them a _ reality. _

And he refuses to accept that.

“This isn’t real,” he says aloud, but nothing changes. He thinks maybe that he should be doing something more, but his shoulders tremble and his knees are locked up and Eddie is _ bleeding, _ more than Richie thinks any person should be able to bleed, ashen and tiny and _ frail. _ Eddie hates being associated with fragility but Richie can’t help but see it, here, now. 

Frail hands on his; frail face smeared with blood; frail, gasping inhalations as he clings to the delicate threads of being _ alive, _ and that, more than anything, snaps Richie out of his daze. Eddie is heavier in his arms than he’d expected, but adrenaline spurs him on. He’s going to get him the fuck out of these sewers and nothing on this fucking planet is going to stop him.

When he staggers to his feet with Eddie’s blood soaking the front of his shirt, Bill has the bat now, and he’s swinging it wildly at the clown they’ve knocked prone as It flickers between wearing a yellow raincoat and being soaked in blood. Playing games. It’s all fake. It has to be fake.

Eddie, in his arms, isn’t fake.

He’s _ pissed. _ In the moment it takes for Pennywise to zero in on him, raincoat disappearing as It springs to Its feet, it all turns into a white-hot rage. And in the same instant, the clown freezes and Bill’s bat comes down hard on Its head, and It oscillates between a hulking, howling werewolf and Eddie’s pale face, contorted in agony, chin stained black, and then It’s Georgie Denbrough again for a fraction of a second.

And then It’s Alvin Marsh. Then Henry Bowers. Then Eddie, eyes glazed, flesh rotting. 

If Richie had that bat right now, he’d bash Its fucking brains in. “Fuck you!” he howls at It, just as Mike pounces on It from behind and plunges something through Its chest. It comes out the other side dripping black blood, just like Eddie, and again Richie barely resists the urge to vomit.

Eddie’s fingers scrabble at his sleeves and Richie’s moving, dragging them both forward, towards the door they all entered through. “We’re gonna get out of here,” he insists. “You’re gonna be okay.” He keeps it up even as he stumbles, even as everything quiets down around him and Stan’s at his side, a reassuring grip on his shoulder, and then Ben is holding the door and Richie is _ crying, _ gaze glued to Eddie’s face and the way the colour is rapidly draining from his cheeks. 

Mike tries to take Eddie from him. Mike _tries to take Eddie_ but Richie draws him in closer, _“Don’t touch him,”_ _he’s hurt, please don’t make it worse._

“Let me help,” Mike says, but Richie just trudges onward with his friends at his side, even as his arms ache fiercely and his knees nearly give out in the ice-cold sewer water. Even as he struggles to breathe right alongside Eddie. Even as the shuddering slows.

He couldn’t stop this so he _ has _ to undo it. He has to.

Bill runs ahead to get help.

Richie wonders, waiting for another cool, shallow puff of air against his blood-soaked arm (that he’s almost positive isn’t coming), if there’s even a _point._ Everything is tinged red through his glasses when he finally collapses beside the well in the Neibolt house, and Eddie doesn’t do anything but hang limp in his arms, and he _ can’t. _ He can’t look at his face when he knows there’s likely nothing left there for him to see. Maybe big brown eyes stuck open forever.

His heart gets all twisted up wrong and he vomits on the floor, heaving with sobs. Beverly is draped over his shoulders, whispering something to him, but he can’t hear it because his ears are ringing and he _ can’t do this. _

_ Please; _ he wishes maybe he did believe in a God so they could keep Eddie alive for him. _ Please. _

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he curls up on his side with his forehead pressed to Eddie’s and he _ doesn’t look. _ He can’t stand to look. He lets his tears slip past closed eyelids and keeps his hand pressed to Eddie’s cool cheek, ignoring the stickiness of drying blood there. 

But he doesn’t look, because he doesn’t want the last memory he has of Eddie to be of death.

Everyone else is crowding around him, chattering, trying to get a word in, hands all over him -- hands on Eddie that he wants to swat away. He needs to get Eddie help but _ how? _ What can possibly be done for him? 

“Please,” he croaks, pushing their faces together more insistently and it _ hurts. _ More than just the strain in his limbs from carrying Eddie, or the scrapes and bruises from their adventure in the sewer. It’s worse. Deeper. A visceral ache nestled in right beside his heart, pulsating outwards with a million needle-sharp points. It drives into his lungs, suffocating.

_Sharing ice cream; riding on the back of his bike; curled up in the hammock with Eddie’s head on his shoulder and a pair of headphones propped between them, quiet music buzzing through the open spaces in the clubhouse._ _Late night phone calls. Playing chicken in the quarry. Eddie’s hands on his skin making him feel lighter than air. _

_ Stupid notes passed back and forth in math class. _

_ “God, ew, don’t touch your face. I have hand sanitizer, here--” _

_ Lithe, steady hands smoothing the edge of a bandage over the scrape on his knee. _

Things he can’t live without. 

Things he didn’t realize until this moment that he _ can’t live without. _

Maybe because he’s never had to face the reality of a life without Eddie Kaspbrak glued to his side, snarking and bitching and making him fall in love a little bit more with every second they’re together. Pleas continue to fall off his lips and _ he needs to get up, _ needs to keep moving -- can hear Bev saying the same above him -- but it hurts too much to move. 

Hopeless.

Eddie is cold under his hands and if he’s breathing at all, it’s undetectable past the harsh movements of Richie sobbing against him.

_ Sirens. _

Richie falls still all at once, subconsciously twisting around towards the sound, coming from the streets above. Bill must have-- _ oh. _ Oh, maybe they can fix this. Maybe he can fix this.

Maybe it’s not hopeless.

He struggles to lift Eddie again, shaking like a leaf and _ drained, _ so drained. He wasted every bit of adrenaline his body could produce getting Eddie out of the sewer, and now the trek up the stairs looks like Everest. 

“Let me help,” Mike says, again, even though his smile is strained, fraught with worry. He’s trying, obviously for Richie’s sake, and Richie knows he isn’t able so he lets him. His fingers catch in the fabric of Eddie’s blood-stained sleeve and he doesn’t let go even when they’re stumbling into the blinding sun, the boards of the decaying porch sagging ominously under their weight. 

He doesn’t feel like any of this is real. Everything from the moment Eddie was hurt to where he stands now, in the dead grass outside the Well House, has been a blur of panic and a dream-like trance. He trembles and heaves as an ambulance pulls up the road ahead of them, not entirely able to compose himself.

His ears ring. He tightens his grip on Eddie’s shirt and thinks, _ please. _

_ Please. _

_ Initials carved into the Kissing Bridge because he felt like he was going to burst and no one will _ understand. _ There’s no one to talk to about it, but it needs to be said. _

_ Sometimes, Eddie falls asleep tucked up against Richie in the hammock, and it’s moments like those that he understands the way his parents look at each other. Like they hung the stars in the sky. _

He sways in place for a second before hitting the pavement.

  
  


_ “What’s the verdict, Doc?” Richie says cheekily, fidgeting enough that Eddie is hissing and forcing his leg into place. _

_ “What’s the _ verdict? _ The verdict is you’re a fucking moron. You have no sense of self-preservation. The verdict is, you can’t just fucking ride your bike down a hill in the fucking Barrens and expect to come out unscathed. What did you think was gonna happen?” Eddie sounds pissed as all get-out but his movements are calm and practised. His fanny pack is propped against his thigh, hanging open, and he reaches in without looking to retrieve another disinfectant wipe. “There are trees and branches and fuckin’ rocks and shit, not to mention the leaves everywhere -- you can’t see what’s going on under all that. I _ told _ you not to do that, but _ no, _ common sense is too much to bother with.” _

_ “Ah,” says Richie, pretending to tap his chin thoughtfully. “And what’s the prognosis?” _

_ Eddie stops, now, in the middle of smearing antibiotic ointment all over the bloody gash in his knee, to look him dead in the eye. He huffs loudly, and with more sass than should be contained in such a tiny person, snarks, “The prognosis is that you’re going to fucking die. Of stupidity. Any day now.” _

_ Richie whistles. “Yeowch. Tough luck. Thought I’d at least finish middle school before stupidity took me out.” _

_ “You’re unbelievable.” _

_ “Aww, thanks, Eds. You’re quite something, yourself.” _

_ And even though he sounds _ rabid _ while he snaps and spits back at Richie, a retort always on the tip of his tongue, his hands are gentle while he smoothes a bandage over his knee. Deliberate and attentive. Richie should injure himself more often, he thinks, and then shame burns deep in his gut because that isn’t how boys normally think of their best friends. _

_ Not of wanting to be in contact, all the time, for every reason. A hand on his shoulder or their legs pressed together under the blankets during movie night at Bill’s. Finding a million excuses to put his fingers in his hair. Picking a nonexistent crumb off his cheek just because -- because he’s soft, and the touch sends an electric warmth through Richie’s arm, and because he can’t just chase that feeling for no good reason. _

_ Of wanting to kiss. To hold -- constantly in some kind of embrace, like they can protect each other from all the dangers of the world if they just hold on. Of not minding in the _ least _ when Eddie falls asleep on him and drools everywhere, even though it’d be gross if it was anyone else. _

_ Of the way little girls always dream about a wedding and how -- he doesn't mean to sound like a sissy little girl, but if he’d have to spend the rest of his life with anyone, there’s no question who he’d choose. _

_ And how _ abnormal _ that is. _

Sonia Kaspbrak doesn’t want anyone in Eddie’s hospital room. She doesn’t want the risk, the germs, the disturbances. The little ‘gremlin friends of his,’ as she so disdainfully refers to them, and he’ll at least give her that it _ was _ their fault he got hurt in the first place.

Her precious Eddie-kins would never _ willingly _ try to play in the sewers. Would never put himself in _ any _ kind of danger. They’re all just _ such a bad influence. _

Richie sneaks in because she can go fuck herself. The second Mrs. K leaves his side, he’s through the door, and he doesn’t know how to process the way he feels.

Relief, maybe. Eddie’s _ alive, _ and he’s doing alright -- might even make a full recovery, or so he’d overheard. He’s not awake, and Richie doesn’t know when he’s _ supposed _ to be awake, but he doesn’t fucking care. He’s been in this hospital for the better part of a day, he’s starving and filthy and his hair is matted with blood, and he needs to see Eddie or he thinks he might shrivel up and die.

Heartbreak, definitely. Or something like it. He’s pretty sure _ heartbreak _ was the relentless pressure of grief deep in his chest when Eddie was still and silent in his arms, but this hurts almost as much.

He’s never looked quite so small before. Not quite so alien, either. Dwarfed by machines, tucked up under the sheets in an oversized bed, face obscured by tape and tubes. There’s still a tiny bit of blood crusted under his fingernails, little crescents of maroon that Richie examines as he lifts his hand.

He doesn’t have long here. Mrs. K will be back any second, and his parents are on their way to the hospital to get him (and a few other Losers whose parents are equally concerned with where the fuck they’ve been all day). He’s sure to get an earful about dangerous behaviour the moment he gets in the car, but that’s a problem for later.

The problem for right now is he doesn’t know what to_ do _ with everything he’s feeling. He’s _ quiet. _ Struck silent by the horrors of the past twenty-four hours. Or maybe by the deathly pallor of Eddie’s face -- what he can see of it. By his own reservations about his feelings toward his best friend and how _ wrong _ he knows it is. How wrong it is for him to be here, intruding on this space, when Eddie doesn’t even really know the important things about him. The things like _ that. _

He laces their fingers together and holds fast, trying to convey all the overwhelming love he feels through the gesture. Let just enough of it _ out _ that he can relax for a while. 

Richie sets his hand back down at his side like he’s made of glass, and makes a hasty retreat before Mrs. K can get back or he can burst into tears again.

Whichever would come first.

The hospital is far as _ fuck. _ Richie is going to be a star athlete by the time Eddie is discharged. He’s never rode his bike this far in his life, and now he does it twice a day, every day. 

It’s been the same all week. Mrs. K still doesn’t want anyone in Eddie’s room but she has, like, a job and shit, so she can’t be there to guard his room 24/7. Richie skitters around the corridors of the ICU, an unimpressionable kid who everyone is happy to ignore so long as he’s quiet, and waits for his chance. Since Eddie’s room is right at an intersection of two hallways, it’s easy enough for him to casually stroll by the door without being seen by the occupants of the room, peeking in long enough to see Mrs. K reading a book or watching television and hurrying off in the other direction to keep waiting. It’s routine, now.

Except today.

Today, he hears voices inside the room.

Which isn’t unusual in and of itself: Eddie has nurses and doctors who come by to check up on him regularly. But Richie knows the sound of Eddie’s voice better than he knows his own -- the kid seriously never shuts up (and everyone complains about _ his _ loud mouth).

His heart is in his throat while he eavesdrops, feet glued to the floor just out of sight of the door. He doesn’t think he breathes through the whole exchange, and his brain is a jumbled mess of _ processing, wait, what the fuck, Eddie’s awake, Eddie’s-- _

_ “--fine,_ I promise. I have all… all these books and the T.V. and… I know, mommy, but I’m okay.” He sounds like he’s a whisper from death, still, but he’s _ awake -- _ Richie’s going to fucking pass out. Literally, he does not know what to do with himself. 

“One day won’t hurt, Eddie-bear. You know how I worry. I couldn’t bear to give up any more time with my baby, not after…” She doesn’t finish the sentence but fuck if Richie doesn’t almost sympathize with _ that _ sentiment.

Then Eddie says, quieter than before, “It’s gonna be a really big hospital bill.” 

A few minutes later, the door is swinging open the rest of the way and Richie barely ducks around the corner in time to avoid being spotted as Mrs. K walks out, oversized purse swinging from her shoulder. He listens to her worn shoes _ thump-thump-thump _ away down the corridor and then he can’t contain himself anymore.

He explodes into Eddie’s room, all flailing limbs as the door slams against the wall with the excessive force he uses, and draws up short.

Eddie blinks at him through dull eyes rimmed with purple bruising, freckles stark against his pale cheeks. Then a radiant smile breaks out across his face and he breathes, “Richie!”

Richie _ feels _ his face crumple and barely contains the flood of tears that suddenly threatens to make an appearance, striding over to Eddie’s bedside and standing there, staring. Not sure what to say.

Still not sure how to feel.

Relief; definitely.

Heartbreak; a little less.

It’s hard to be sad when Eddie smiles at him like that. Like he’s holding the sun up just for him.

He opens his mouth to say something, _ anything. _ He’s been silent in this room for _ days _ now, floundering under the weight of everything he _ wishes _ he could say, and he doesn’t quite know how to break that silence yet.

What comes out is a pitiful little whimper as his resolve crumbles. He drops his bag and crawls right into the bed next to Eddie, mindful of the things he’s still hooked up to, and his face hits his shoulder just as the first tears leak out.

He’s powerless to stop them after that. 

At some point he notices Eddie’s fingers are running through his hair, rubbing at his shoulders, little reassurances whispered beneath him like _ he’s _ the one who really needs it. 

He should say _ something. _ Joke about what a fucking baby he is. Maybe something in poor taste, like about getting impaled, _ wink wink. _ Lighten the mood because that’s what he _does;_ that’s what the Trashmouth lives for. 

One of his hands slides up to cup Eddie’s cheek and he’s _ warm. _ Warm and breathing and _ alive _ and Richie is probably going to need fucking therapy or some shit after an ordeal like that, he realizes. 

He has another excuse in his list of a million reasons to touch Eddie, at least.

“You’re okay,” he says, but it comes out sounding more like a question. Eddie nods under his hand, tucking his hair behind his ear. His glasses dig uncomfortably into the side of his face. They’re probably poking Eddie, too.

“Oh, fuck!” he sits upright abruptly, drawing himself up and away from where he was practically lying on top of him. “I’m sorry, shit, are you alright? I didn’t mean to…” He gestures vaguely at Eddie’s chest, where he knows there are probably a thousand-and-one stitches holding him together, and wipes at his eyes with his other hand. 

“I’m okay,” Eddie assures him, voice soft and breathy, the same way he sounds in the aftermath of an asthma attack. “I’m okay. Are you--?”

“I’m _ fine.” _ He’s not, not really, and he can tell Eddie knows that, but he doesn’t have any idea how to articulate it so he smiles and pinches Eddie’s cheek and says, “How was your nap, Eddie Spaghetti?”

“Oh, fuck right off.” Eddie tries to swat his hands away but he doesn’t quite have the strength. Richie lets go, anyway, out of courtesy. 

It’s quiet for a long time. Almost too long. Richie kneels there and watches Eddie breathe, fingers still on his cheek even if he isn’t pinching and prodding at him. His gaze flickers down to his chest several times. Like he expects to see blood start gushing again any minute. 

Eddie, for his part, lets his head flop against his pillow and stares right back, expression indiscernible. His eyelids flutter occasionally. He must be exhausted. Recovery is going to be a bitch -- Richie is smart enough to know that. But at least he’ll recover at all.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says out of the blue. He blinks up at Richie, slow and solemn, lips twisted into a frown.

“What? Why?”

Eddie tries to shrug, then hisses and bites his lip. Richie’s hand is on his shoulder instantly, as if he’ll be able to do anything about it. Eddie’s in pain and he’s going to be for a long time, and there really isn’t anything Richie can do.

He _ could have _ stopped it from happening, if he was smarter or faster or _ better. _

“For getting hurt. For scaring you,” Eddie tries to explain, and Richie’s jaw drops.

“Why the fuck would you apologize for something like that?”

“Wh--? I--” Eddie scowls at him. Richie’s hand is still firm on his shoulder, thumb smoothing circles into the itchy fabric of the hospital gown, and there it will stay no matter how pissed Eddie acts. “Because look at you! I made you cry!”

“Well, maybe I was crying because your mom called it off with me. Hm? You ever think about that?” Richie purses his lips and shakes his head. “No, you only think about yourself.”

“Can you fuck off? Seriously? That is _ so _ not funny.”

“It’s true!”

“You’re crying over my terrifying mom who’s ten times your size?” Eddie can’t move much but he finds it in himself to cross his arms just so he can dial up the sass when he gives Richie a withering look and arches one eyebrow. 

“What makes you think I’d cry over _ you?” _

“Uh, maybe the fact that I’m your best friend, asshole.”

“Incorrect. Stan the Man Uris is my _ B.F.F.” _

“I’m kicking you out of my hospital room.”

_ “Nooo,” _ Richie whines, finally letting go of Eddie long enough to flop over beside him. “I’d miss you.” He pouts exaggeratedly.

Eddie shoves him. There’s not enough force behind it to even move him half a centimetre, but he feels kind of bad about that so he rolls away like Eddie actually pushed him. “Go miss me with your bestie, Stan, then.”

“Eddie Spaghetti, you are so cruel to me,” Richie pretends to cry, which just earns him another shove.

“I’m injured. You have to respect my wishes. Leave me alone.”

“You can be my B.F.F.L. My best friend for life.”

“What the fuck do you think’s gonna happen to Stan? He only gets_ temporary _ best friend rights? That’s fucked up, Rich.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“I’m leaving it.”

Richie rolls over, back towards him, pressing all up against his side and planting his face on his upper arm. Normally he’d lay with his head on his chest, but, well… “Okay. I’ll stay right here, then.”

“God, you’re impossible.”

“Impossibly sexy.”

“I literally hate you.”

“Aw, fuck.” Richie sighs, remembering the backpack he dumped on the floor before launching himself into Eddie’s bed to cry his heart out. “I brought like junk food and comics and shit but it’s all in my backpack. Can you get it for me?”

Eddie’s quiet for a moment. Richie can feel his glare boring into his skull, equal parts disbelieving and amused. “No, I fucking cannot, Richard.”

* * *


End file.
